Resurrection Insurrection
by vinnie2757
Summary: The year is 2027, and the Company now runs the world. Alfred Jones takes up the role of hero when Britain, the only reason he's even fighting, is found after 5 years missing. But he's not the same. Something's wrong. He's not human. USUK/Britannia Angel
1. The Eagle Lands

**Title: **Resurrection Insurrection

**Fandom: **_Hetalia: Axis Powers_

**Author: ** Me and my Awesome

**Genre:** Romance, fluff, supernatural, adventure, sci-fi, horror.

**Pairing: **USUK, AmeRus-love-hate, GerTalia, PruCan (with past Franada and Pru/Bran) and Giripan, SuFin, LietPol, AusHun, Spamano and Chi/HRE bringing up the rear. Oh, and Sealand's kicking around too. And China. And the rest of the canon characters too, probably. Side pairings that are mentioned but never really shown; UkrCan, BelaAm, Bela-Rus, RoChu, FrUK, NorDen, Rome/Germania is hinted at as a major pre-end-of-the-world pairing, and IDEK, some other guys too.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Post-apocalypse human AU, scientific experiments gone awry, some language, mentions of drug/alcohol (mis)use, sexuality, violence. The usual. This is Hetalia, do I need to give warnings? Are you even reading this?

**Summary: **The year is 2027, and the Company now runs the world. Alfred F. Jones – freedom fighter, ace-driver, pilot, shot and all around hero – becomes part of the last stand when, after 5 years missing, his British cohort is found. USUK/Britannia Angel.

**A/N: **I should be writing the _Moulin Rouge!_ AU. But I got distracted by the sky whilst out being an awesome pillion. If you read that and understood it, congratulations. If you read it and didn't have a clue; I'm a biker. Pillion is the term for passengers. Now that that impromptu lesson's out the way; ONWARDS. Notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!

**Chapter 1: The Eagle Lands**

It's five AM. No, it's five-sixteen AM. The sky is black and there is fog rolling in. Fog? Or smoke? It's hard to tell these days. The fires are always burning. Endlessly, they burn. A house. A village. A city. A country. It doesn't matter to Them. As long as rebellion is crushed, any measures can be taken.

"Al – America, we need to get out of here, before They find us." The voice is low, muffled by the gas-mask hiding the long, battle-hardened, emotionally-weary features of a friend that's become a brother. It doesn't matter where they came from. They're all family at the end of the day. They're all they've got left in the world. There is a slight accent, but it can barely be heard. It's too risky to have anything regional on your tongue these days. They can track it; trace it through your genes. Find your family. Hurt them.

They learnt that lesson quickly. But it was already too late.

"I know." It's a defeated whisper that replies. Likewise, there is the rattle of the filter in the gas-mask, the echo of the two words, but it is the tone that gives the first speaker pause. For too long now, there's been – not _happiness_ – but it certainly wasn't depression. It wasn't defeat. It had been bearable, a brave face in a coward's world. But now… There was a catch in there, as though the second speaker was about to cry, and the sirens have already begun. They're already alert to the unidentified, _living_ presence in the ruins.

"America! Come on!"

A hand grabs a wrist, tugs once, twice, and then there are steps, and they're full out sprinting, leaping over rubble and smouldering fires, and they're running, faster, faster, faster, gasping for air left inadequate from the oxygen stolen by the flames, swamped by the smog. There is gunfire, the screech of tires, and the wail of sirens as They pick up speed, begin closing in.

"America!"

A rifle thrown his way. He rips it from the air, already chambering a round with the bolt-handle, and spinning to a stop. A split-second passes in which he's blinded by the ash that swarms in a cloud in front of him, pulled from the ground by his feet, but the butt of the rifle is already in his shoulder, he's already taken aim and fired. Three shots in quick succession, and then as his companion lets loose his own volley, he flips a switch, barely catches it with his glove, stops holding the rifle as such and utilises its semi-automatic capabilities.

He'll be chewed out later for wasting the ammo, but he's a good-enough shot that each bullet counts. _Overkill is better than underkill_, and the voice that whispers it in his ear doesn't bother to hide its accent. It's British. English. From that bit that used to be North Yorkshire. It's a broad accent, and it nearly floors him, but he's battle-hardened enough not to falter.

America hasn't heard that voice in five years.

The last time they spoke, it had been over the communication lines hidden deep underground, a left-over of a better time, a time America didn't know, a time none of them knew. They'd argued, America for his right to fight, Britain for his right to keep America's pretty little nose out it. Part of America, after the first time of many in which his nose was broken, wondered whether he'd think it was pretty now. But such thoughts were scarce.

After the argument, he hadn't heard from Britain for days, weeks, months. It wasn't unusual; power couplings were temperamental bastards at best, especially over the Sea. And besides, it wasn't unlike Britain to hold a grudge.

But the days, weeks, months passed, and there was no word to anybody. Nobody heard anything from him. Eventually, word spread from the North, from the icecaps, and it eventually reached them that Britain had vanished, kidnapped.

He wasn't the first one, and he wasn't the last.

He was, however, the only one to not be found.

Part of America's lost hope, he's lost faith that Britain might still be alive, that they might yet find him. Part of him still holds out, of course, because the idea that Britain's out there, waiting for them to find him, withstanding Their torture and cursing Their names as he laughs his psychotic little head off… Sometimes, it's the only thing that keeps him going.

"Hey!" his companion shouts, and though America's been firing with deadly accuracy, he's gone into his own little world, a world where there isn't constant fire and constant death. A world that's _before_. "Pay attention, we need to get out of here!"

"Right!"

So they provide each other with sporadic, lethal cover fire as they work on tearing up the manhole cover they'd discovered on their last visit to what had been a thriving community, and laying the bombs. America is grateful for that jab, because otherwise his muscles would have deteriorated beyond use by now, and it's only been five years.

It's a hard life, but someone has to do it. The Company can't go on.

The other job, once they've switched places, is for his companion to rig the explosives to blow the manhole to kingdom come and prevent it being opened again. Once it's rigged, America is grabbed by the ankle to tell him to cease fire and retreat. He does so willingly and they're barely at the other end of the tunnel before the makeshift bomb goes.

And then they're laughing, tearing off their masks and laughing as though they might never get another chance. They might not. They don't know.

"Jesus," America wheezes, slumping against a dry wall and wiping tears from his eyes. His eyeglasses are smudged with ash, fogged with smoke from the gunfire and the explosion, but he can't bring himself to clean them. Not dressed in these clothes anyway. "That was close."

His companion is still chuckling as he pulls his own mask off, running his free hand through the long locks atop his head. America will tell him it needs a cut because what man has hair that reaches his shoulder, and Canada will punch him. They'll have a scuffle, and they'll laugh some more, and they'll head back to their stronghold across the once-border, and they'll send the message out that another town's been obliterated.

There is no scuffle today. America doesn't comment on Canada's hair, and Canada doesn't bring it up. Instead, he mentions something else.

"That was too close."

America looks at him from where he's now sprawled on the ground, legs splayed, picking at a stray thread on his cable-knit sweater. France made it him, made one for all of them. Long sleeves with thumbholes to keep the wrists protected under abrasive protective gloves, a high collar, a hood. It's almost too long, too wide on the shoulders, but it's warm, and it's been well-worn. Well-worn enough to merit leather patches on the elbows, anyway. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Canada begins, pacing a little. His boots are falling apart, but he's patched them up, enough to last for the next supply run, anyway. "You're starting to lose focus. You're letting your mind wander, and you might think we were safe, but you were nearly caught by the Company."

"Was not."

"You were," Canada insists. "You let them get close enough whilst you were off in wonderland that I had to waste my own ammo keeping them off you. You're good, Alfred, we all know that. We all know what drives you. But you can't let him linger like that. He's gone. When Pete's old enough, he'll take his place."

"I can still hear him," America whispers, thrown for a second by the use of his real name. Alfred. Alfred F. Jones. That's his full name, and it's one he very rarely uses. He's just America most days, just as Matthew Williams, stood across from him with concern on his face, is Canada. It's the ultimate defiance, to take the name of a country that no longer exists. There are no state borders anymore, no flags and no anthems. But they linger, and Alfred has taken the name of a once great nation to keep that memory alive.

One day, one day America will return, just as Canada will, just as Britain and France and everyone else will. One day, the world will be free again.

"What?" Matthew whispers, and he stops his pacing to crouch in front of Alfred with wide eyes. There is a crack on his eyeglasses, and Alfred makes a note to send them to Germany to be repaired.

"Britain. I can still hear him sometimes. In the very back of my head, like we're on the communication lines. And it just… I don't expect it. I should, it's my head. But he sneaks up on me."

To which Matthew spares a soft, nostalgic smile. "He was good at that, ever since we met him, he was good at sneaking." He puts his hands on Alfred's shins, rubs his thumbs across the knees above them, and says, "Come on, we'd best get back."

He gives Alfred a hand, and, gas-masks hooked onto their belts, they meander back to base, near-miss pushed to the recesses of their minds, and jokes about Matthew's hair coming to the fore.

It's seven-forty-three AM. Alfred has been awake for thirty-six hours and twelve minutes. He has seen former allies burnt to death, he's buried their charred remains, he has been shot at and, apparently, nearly died. He is desperate for a drink, but the supply run he and Matthew had intended to go on had been abruptly cut short by the destruction. He is furious and he's tired, more tired than he usually is.

He feels like he could do with some kind of morphine shot, but he knows if he voices such a thought to Matthew, he'll get thrown across the Sea to Austria and have his brain niggled at and he's in no mood to be put through the Psyche-Analysis Program again. He doesn't want to be in that chair again, plugged back into that machine. He's seen what it does, knows personally what it does. How it scrambles your brains until you don't remember what the problem was. Instead, he settles for sprawling on his makeshift bed and groaning.

"Oh, stop whining," Matthew says automatically, and damn him for actually being able to sleep like a normal human. "I sent a message to China asking for some more of those sleeping pills again. You really ought to break that habit, you know. It's not good to rely on them the way you do. I mean, I know it's spells. Sometimes you sleep better than anyone I know, but when you can't… Well, you shouldn't rely on them."

"Then why do you keep sending for them?"

When Matthew bitches him out, Alfred groans some more, flings an arm over his eyes and uses his other to flip the Canadian off. He promptly goes on to ignore Matthew's tinkering and key-clacking as he goes about checking their Intel.

"Uh… Alfred?"

He starts to groan, but the tone sinks in, and he's on his feet, crossing the den in three long strides, one hand braced on the table, the other on the back of Matthew's chair, peering at the screen.

"What is it?"

In the middle is a small video feed. A blond man with his hair worn long in a style not too dissimilar to the seated man opposite him, looking dishevelled and in need of a shave, salutes them in that vague way of his. His end of the feed is dark; what time is it over there? Shouldn't it be early afternoon? Where is he this time?

"Alfred, Matthew," he says, and he sounds like a wreck. There is an accent on his voice that Alfred remembers from his childhood, one that's rare these days. This man is French. He's always been French and he refuses to give it up. He combs half-gloved hands through his hair and sighs. "I've got some news for you."

"Well, go on," Alfred says. "Spit it out, man. It's eating you."

"I just got word from Germany," France whispers. "Apparently, he uncovered a few files that'll make for interesting reading. He's going to forward them to me, and if he's right about them, I'll forward them to you."

Matthew shakes his head a little. He's pulled his hair back, but a shorter strand frees itself. "I don't understand. What files? What are they for?"

It's not unusual to find Company files whilst on infiltration missions; their German ally is good at such things, especially when teamed up with that scientific experiment he had been calling a brother – whether he was or not, Alfred didn't know, whatever happened to turn him into what he'd become, which Alfred understood to be a freak of nature, because he _was_, no matter how Matthew felt on the matter – and occasionally they'd come across something of value; trade routes, convoys, training exercises. Things they could use to undermine Their efforts at world domination. But whatever it was Germany had found this time, it was _big_. It was something beyond the report of damages in the Hub. It was something _personal_ to them.

Alfred didn't even dare let himself hope.

France takes a breath, licks his lips. He looks away from the screen for a second, and then looks back at them. There's a tear on his cheek, and it catches in an old scar there. "If Germany's right about the files, right about what they contain…" He swallows. "If he's right, Britain's alive, and we have his location."

**++END CHAPTER++**

**NOTES:**

This is what happens when you spend a day listening to the FFVII soundtrack, watching Assassin's Creed trailers before bed (don't ask, please dear God, don't ask about that dream, it was just. Yeah.) and generally making a nuisance of yourself.

Believe it or not, **France**, as of 2009, **has the best medical care in the world**. I can't see America giving himself a jab. I was going to give it to Japan, but he's got the technology. I was tempted by China as well, because for some reason, everybody always gives him the medic's role. I don't even know why, I mean, I tried googling.

Oh, Mattie, you **stereotype-breaking explosives nut **you.

**America's wearing this: **http:/ cache. gawkerassets. Com /assets/images/9/ 2010/ 11/ 500 x_

**I don't have much to say about this other than, I hope it wasn't too boring? Hope you enjoyed my lovelies! ++Vince++**


	2. Mission Control

**For this chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, PruCan, France, Germany, Ukraine, Belarus, Britain. Background Can/Ukr, AmeriBela, mentioned: USUK and Franada.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** _Angst_: America's all aloooooone. _Slash_: some. _Language_: a fair bit I think. Talk of promiscuity. Violence. Possible OOCness (It's my first time writing Belarus, cut me some slack or something)

**Chapter Summary: **A mission begins and ends on the echo of a dream.

**A/N: **I'm having far too much fun beating these guys up these days, aren't I? When was the last time I wrote something fluffy? This thing keeps scrweing with my formatting, so I apologise in advance for words stuck together and whatnot. I don't know why it does it. **OBSCENELY LONG CHAPTER** (for me, anyway.) Notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!

**Chapter Two: Mission Control**

It's quiet here, only the sounds of the waves lapping the sand, the clink of pebbles as they're tugged back with the foam. It's dark, midnight maybe, or just late night, early morning. It's a soft quiet, a gentle peace. Alfred knows he's alone here; he's always alone here. He comes here to think, muse over things he wouldn't give voice to even in the hands of the Company.

Moonlight glints off the horizon, off each crest of each wave, and still he stands there, thinking, arms by his sides, a hand on the knife at his belt, a hand on the holstered gun on his leg. He's armed, but not dangerous. Not right now. Right now, he's in the only place he doesn't need to worry.

Francis had sent them a town over to do their supply run whilst he decoded the files; there was no point in their hanging around, he'd said, no point in wasting time. Alfred didn't stand for it, of course, because what were they doing in that moment if not wasting time? Two-to-one shot his want – his _need_ – down, and he had been forced to concede that yes, Matthew was a pandering little bitch, but he may have had a point.

Maybe.

It doesn't mean, though, that Alfred likes this. The waiting.

He suspects Francis didn't mind Matthew remaining behind, that he just wanted Alfred occupying himself so he didn't do something brash and unjustified, something completely mindless that would only get him into danger. That was fine with Alfred, because he needed to get out, get away and do something, _anything_.

He forgot Matthew's boots though, just to be an arse. It wasn't like it mattered all that much; Matthew would just use Alfred's spare ones when his eventually wore out, provided he didn't get his own or Kat didn't send some over for him. Prussia wouldn't do shit for him, so it _would_ be Kat.

But he likes it here, this beach, because there's no one here to interrupt him.

The waves reach his ankles, some brush mid-calf, but Alfred finds it hard to care. He picks at the crease of his elbow, thinks about the warnings he'd been given, the concerns that had been raised. It was dangerous, what they'd injected him with, experimental at best. It was Company tested, not people tested. But Alfred had insisted, because how could he fight, how could he bring down the Company if he couldn't even sit up, couldn't walk or hold a weapon with which to fight?

It had been the desperation, the realisation that, yes, this was that important to him, especially in the wake of Britain's disappearance, that had convinced France to give him the drug.

And it worked, stopped his muscles deteriorating, and Alfred made a point to thank God every day that the strain he'd had in him hadn't affected him earlier, not really. He had yet to collapse, yet to have any side-effects of the drug, so all in all, it had been a good idea, an investment worth it.

There are hands on his hips, a nose pressed against the nape of his neck, the curve of a smile against his spine. He remembers this feeling, but it's not one he can place. The last time they were this close, _he_ was the one five inches shorter, tucking himself under a chin with a five o'clock shadow and into warm, pliant arms. His breathing slows, relaxes even as his heart thumps in his chest.

"I'm dreaming," he whispers.

"Yes," Britain replies, sinking closer still, every breath of his body brushing against the skin of Alfred's back. Britain's skin is wet, like he's been in the water. But there is no feeling of the sea against his back, just the vague wetness of that day in the rain, and Alfred hums, takes his hands from his weapons to put them over Britain's own. "I'm sorry to disappoint."

"I love you," Alfred whispers after a pause that would have been stagnant with anyone else, but was just heavy between them. "I've always loved you."

Britain says nothing, but he smiles against Alfred's skin.

"Why did I never learn your name?" he asks, still staring off into the horizon.

"It would have put you in danger," Britain says, which is logical, Alfred supposes. It's something he already knows; it took him three years to learn Francis and Gilbert's names, and he's only recently learned Germany and Japan's. "You were already at risk."

"I'm a hero, now," Alfred protests, and he laughs when Britain digs his fingers into his hips, the edge of a frown pressed where the smile had once been. "I don't get into danger. I'm going to save you, I promise."

"Let me go," Britain sighs, sliding his hands around Alfred's chest to flatten a warm, sweaty palm against his heart.

It's that warmth that forces him towards wakefulness - Britain has always had cold hands, clammy from a lifetime longing to feel the rain on his skin. His skin was never chilly, from what Alfred remembers, but the pleasant cool of the fresh side of a pillow, the cool of a refrigerated drink. It's one of the few things he's had that has been able to stabilise an otherwise turbulent life.

"Alfred," and though he can feel Britain's lips moving, it's not the Yorkshireman's voice. It's a familiar one, it's British Columbian hinted with Québécois, and it's one he doesn't particularly want to hear. "Wake up; Francis has decoded the files."

He grumbles, rolls over, curses from under his arm at the other, and Matthew, the utter bastard that he is, just laughs, and dumps water on him.

Alfred leaps out of bed with an unmanly scream, staggers over a pair of trousers, trips over his boot and falls onto Matthew's bed.

"You ass!" he cries, rounding on the now-collapsed Canada, clutching at his ribs as he tries not to pass out. "What was that for?"

"I tried to wake you," Matthew gasps. "I did, honest, but you weren't waking. I had to do something."

"You dumped _water_ on me!" He scrubs his face angrily, cleans the smears of his fingers from his eyeglasses and shoves Matthew, still laughing, out of the room, cursing him again.

As he changes into dry clothes, he asks what's so important he had to be soaked. He's buckling the belt to the too-baggy cargo pants he's had for god-knows how long when Matthew chooses to speak again.

"Francis decoded the files," Matthew repeats, and the way his muffled voice echoes suggests that he's resting against the door, maybe even using it to support himself. There's no laughter in his voice now. "And Ludwig was right. They were right, Al."

"Britain," Alfred whispers back, touching the rosary slung around his neck; another defiance of the Company. He doesn't much believe in God, but the idea that religion still exists when such things were banned after the War, it's enough to drive the Company nuts, and that's enough for Alfred. He yanks on a long-sleeved, tight, insulated shirt and calls, muffled by the cotton, "He's still alive?"

"Yes," Matthew says. "He's still alive. He's in London, underground, in the labs under the old parliament buildings."

"I thought those labs were destroyed a couple of years back?"

Alfred swings the door open in time to see Matthew shrug. "I guess that's what They wanted us to believe. I mean, think about it. If we think the labs aren't there any more, there's no one to go poking around."

"Britain did."

"Britain was a suspicious bastard," Matthew agrees as they begin the trek back to their intelligence room. "It's what got him caught, according to the files."

"Well, then," Alfred says, stretching his arms above his head, nearly snagging his fingers in one of the looser cables, and giving a pleased little sigh when his joints cracked. "Let's get going, there's no time to waste."

"They'll see us coming a mile off." The Canadian tightens the laces of his boots for a moment, cursing out the breaks in the eyelets. "Francis said to go through the Tundra and meet up with the girls. I've already called ahead to Kat and Natalya, they're expecting us. Kat says that she's managed to get her hands on fake IDs and Natalya's got us tickets on the Bullet."

Alfred casts the taller male a sly little look. "Expecting us, huh?"

Matthew punches him. Alfred's built up an immunity to Matthew's fists, but the strength in them is trained, honed through years in the woods, whereas Alfred's comes from chemicals. He hates to admit it, but Matthew's stronger than him, and he knows that that punch will bruise.

"You're such a pig," Matthew tells him, but tosses him his gas-mask and flight equipment anyway.

"Like you're much better," Alfred snorts, strapping himself into the harness and slinging an old, worn leather jacket over the top. "You're all over Kat the minute we touch down."

"Because unlike you, I actually appreciate what I have."

"Ah, well-played."

Matthew just rolls his eyes and flips the mains off, leaving them in a natural blackness uninterrupted by the usual hum of electronics, the buzz of power in the cables. Alfred likes this sort of darkness; it makes him think of how things should be. It makes him want to read a comic book, one he hasn't read for years, one he doesn't think exists anymore. Nothing like that exists anymore; there's no television beyond what the Company uses for propaganda, no movies at all, barely any music. There are no video games, no novels, no textbooks not endorsed by the guys up top controlling the system. But they make do, because they have to.

Besides, Alfred loves flying. He rarely gets the chance to these days; it's not safe in the skies anymore and wouldn't be even if he didn't have a price on his head, because though the Company's managed to clear most of the radioactivity from the air – one of the few things They've managed to do right – the air's still thin, and it's still deadly. It's a dead zone up there, a world-wide Bermuda Triangle. It means they have to fly low, be in visual range, and be less than a second from total annihilation. The Company polices the skies more fervently than They police the streets.

But it's not like they have a choice. They have to take to the skies if they're going to get anywhere, and it'd take too long to sneak their way onto a commercial flight. It takes them a good two hours of walking to get to the lockdown where they store their planes, which is two hours too long in Alfred's opinion, but Matthew's learnt not to ask for it.

The radio in Matthew's cockpit begins howling the minute he flips the power on.

"Oh for – What?" he demands.

"_Mattie, got some news for you_."

Alfred groans, swings himself into his own cockpit and slams the casing down, shutting himself away from the irritating ass' voice. It's not that he doesn't want Matt to be happy, not that he doesn't want him to find the One, but Jesus, he's got one of the most gorgeous girls gracing God's not-so-green green earth hanging off his every word and he chooses _Gilbert freaking Beilschmidt_. Who did that? _Who_? Alfred knows Matt loves Ekaterina, knows that he loves her with everything he has, but he's not _in love_ with her. They don't have a platonic love, there's no way it's that, but she's not the one for Matt, they all know it. How Ekaterina manages knowing that, Alfred's not sure. But he supposes he's not much better. He loves Natalya, sure, and he'll fall into bed with her if schedules and whatnot allow for it, but he doesn't _love_ her. Britain's already stolen his heart, and part of him still hopes one day that he'll get to steal _his_ heart.

He performs the basic checks over his craft, determined not to peek out over the hangar to where Matthew is sprawled in his own, laughing and grinning and looking like the fool in love that he was. He grumbles under his breath, and then his radio goes.

"What?" he snaps, and hates himself for making his dislike of Gilbert so obvious.

Matt's voice is still full of laughter. _"Gil says he's got clearance to come with us when we go the parliament labs. He's got all the blueprints, and he says that Germany's coming with for back-up_._ Francis too_."

"We don't need back-up," Alfred snarls, and slips his gas-mask on.

"_Uh-huh_," Matt doesn't believe a word of it, but continues regardless. "_So how are you going to hack into the systems to take Britain out of the capsule-vat-tank thing they've put him in?"_

"I'll think of something."

To which Matthew snorts with laughter, calls him a few choice names, and switches the radio off. Alfred stares at the blinking red light for a second, and then flips his own off. There's not much point in keeping it on anyway, it's not like he'll be able to use it after they take off, and all it does is drain the power.

* * *

><p>It takes several hours, but they manage to pick their way across the land bridge and through the snow to touch down in an old field. It's been obliterated, of course, nothing grows there anymore, but the radiation there is enough that once they've rolled the planes into the waiting hangar, they won't be found. It would take days to get to Francis's base, if they were to go on foot. But they've got fake IDs waiting for them from Ekaterina, and Natalya was good enough to get them tickets for the trans-Europa bullet train.<p>

The girls are waiting for them as they shove their planes open and climb out. Matt goes straight to where Ekaterina Braginskaya hovers, chewing her lip to keep her smile in check, but she laughs delightedly when he sweeps her into a hug that lifts her a good foot or so from the ground. He goes to spin her in a circle, but she touches his cheek with a delicate hand and says something to him that clearly confuses him, Alfred can see it written on his face even from here, and he sets her down, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. When she turns her face up, he follows it with one on her mouth, and she laughs again, her arms around his shoulders.

Alfred watches them, and smiles softly.

"It's so cute I think I might be sick."

He laughs and extends an arm from where he has them crossed. Natalya Arlofskaya tucks herself into the niche of his body as he leans against the warm fuselage of his plane, and leans her side into his. She's wearing that dress again; the dark one that's too modest and unassuming for her personality. It's a heavyweight dress, Alfred knows that, and Alfred knows why it is.

"Still got that knife on your leg?" he asks into the bow lopsided in her hair. It's such sheer platinum hair, perfectly straight and it runs through his fingers like silk. It smells like iron again.

She snorts with laughter. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The other two join them after a moment. Ekaterina has a comely blush on her face Alfred thinks might be something other than Matt's arm around her, but the thought is jarred from his head by the dawning realisation that they're about to get Britain back.

* * *

><p>"Al, you really ought to do something about this thing you've got with Nat-Belarus," Matthew says as they hunker down in their assigned seats on the train. There's an old lady next to them, but after a cursory glance at the armed boys next to her, and then at the ID cards slung around their necks, she proceeded to ignore them. He gives her a glance as he speaks and abruptly catches himself so he can use their – they aren't code names, Alfred supposes, but they're as good as.<p>

Alfred ignores Matthew for a minute, pretends to tighten the lace on his boot. Then he says, "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, bull," Matthew calls, his voice low. He leans slightly towards Alfred, shutting everyone else out. "I'm not stupid, America. I've seen the way you look at her."

"Yeah, and?" Alfred shrugs. "It's no different from the way you look at Ka – 'Kraine. Christ, Can', it's not like we've got a moral code to uphold here. You can't talk about who I sleep with – you've slept with France!"

"Once!" Canada hisses, kicking his shin.

The old lady next to them raises an eyebrow and they give her reassuring grins that don't feel real to either of them, but she turns away again.

Matthew rounds on him again, and America pretends not to listen.

"America, it's one thing for me to – America, the difference between you and me is – well, for one thing Prussia _knows_ about me and 'Kraine, and he doesn't care – but I know why I go to her bed."

"Are you saying I don't know why I go to Bela's?"

"Yes, America, I am. You haven't realised why you're doing it, but you need to stop. Christ, America, it's her twenty-third birthday this year."

"So?"

Canada looks at him like he's being particularly stupid. "'Merica, Britain's twenty-three this year."

A solid minute of silence passes in which Alfred watches his best friend in disbelief. "You're serious."

"Yes."

"You think I'm only – you think I'm sleeping with Belarus 'cause she reminds me of Britain?"

"Yes, America, I do. I also think it's going to tear you apart when we get him back."

"Can', the last time we saw each other, I was fourteen. To him, I'm still a child. Hell, we're still underage in some countries according to the old laws. You think that just 'cause we're getting him back, he'll just accept me as all grown up? Not a chance."

Canada watches him, his eyes narrowed. The scenery speeds past them, growing darker as it does as they head backwards along the time zones. There's this look on his face that America doesn't like, but he doesn't have a name for it, it just is. And it frustrates him, but there's nothing he can do about it, so he ignores it and turns his attention to the trees, cities, lakes zipping past him, a blur of colour and a silence stretches between them.

* * *

><p>"Well, well, well, you two took your time."<p>

Matthew laughs and shakes his head. Alfred turns on the spot, tries to locate the bastard, but he's too good at what he does and he can't see him until he's _right there_, and _Christ_, he'd forgotten how small Gilbert Beilschmidt really was, how much of a psycho he really was.

"Bastard," he says at the same time as Matthew apologises.

They've both got a good head on him, but it could just be the way he plants his feet, the bend in his knees that loses him another couple of inches. He likes to think he's clever, wearing a fedora and a long coat, and Alfred supposes he could pull off the ordinary worker when he's got the collar up, but he's not wearing boots and he's got that damnable mask on again.

Alfred's not jealous. Not at all. He doesn't think that the specialist suit that Japan made him after they realised that any natural sunlight would burn his skin to the point it blistered looks cool. Not at all. He thinks it looks stupid, like he's trying to be a superhero.

He can almost _feel_ Gilbert's grin behind the white and black of the visor covering his face.

"Did you have to bring him?" Gilbert asks, jerking a thumb in Alfred's general direction, and flinches a little when a hand clamps down on his shoulder. Alfred grins at it, and feels the scowl directed at him.

"Brother," comes the voice attached to the hand, and damn if Gilbert hasn't been a dick whilst they've been waiting, because Germany is _seething_. "Shut up."

Germany is a freaking _bear_ of a man, all muscle and it's like he's been cut from marble or something, because Alfred doesn't think, as he gestures for them to follow him out of Dresden and into the sanctity of their base underground, where the first thing Gilbert does is lose his clothes and pull his mask off.

Ludwig, of course, rolls his eyes, and tunes both his and Alfred's brothers out, asking Alfred about their journey.

Alfred, likewise, ignores his brother's noisy reunion with the Company experiment, and they wander off down the tunnel a little ways. "It was alright," he says. "Cramped."

"They are efficient though," Ludwig reasons. "It would have taken a much longer time frame for you to reach here if you had taken a more free means of travel."

"True," Alfred concedes. "I just want to go and get Britain as soon as possible, you know? I mean, it's what, three am now? And it'll take another two, three hours to get to Francis and another three to get to the Parliament labs. It's just… I've never given up hope of finding him, you know? And now there's just numbers in front of me. Endless hours blocking me from my goal."

Gilbert laughs, too loud and too enthusiastic, from behind them. They both ignore him.

Ludwig shifts the rifle slung over his back, and casts a too-blue, too-serious look at Alfred. "You are still young," Ludwig muses. "But Britain has been waiting for five years. Another day will not worry him."

"You're only a year older than me," Alfred grumbles. "You're still young too."

But Germany just shrugs. "If you wish," he says, and not for the first time, Alfred feels like a bumbling fool next to him. Like Britain, Germany's movements are smooth, economical. He doesn't waste words, doesn't expend energy. He lives and breathes his work, is a master of his craft. Alfred thinks he might vote that Ludwig runs Germany when they win this war. He'd be good at it; he keeps the rest of the rebels on task, even if he thinks that he's using some kind of creepy mind control on some of them and physical violence on others.

"So it's just going to be us?" Alfred asks after a few minutes of silence. "I mean, me and you, Matt and Prussia, and Francis? Is that enough? Or is it too many? I'm not that big on Britain's labs."

Germany looks ahead, and runs a hand through his hair. "We are each suited to our role," he says, and his voice is low, steady and even, and Alfred knows he's saying it just to be placating, because he knows he hates Prussia and they're going to be in close quarters for a good forty-eight hours yet. "My brother is… He is good at what he does, and he has the blueprints of the labs burnt into his mind. He will be able to get us through without alerting the guards."

"And France? Matt? You? What are you doing?"

"Francis is an adept hacker, as you know. He and Gilbert both will be able to break any security codes we encounter, and they will be able, most likely, to break through the security guarding Britain, of which, I have no doubt, there will be plenty. He is a high security matter, America, and has been since his capture. Security will be tight. As for myself and your brother, we are mostly there as precautionary back-up. I have no doubt that alone you have strength enough to tear down buildings – it was you, was it not, that once punched a hole through a wall? – but to go in alone with those two is… well, it's stupid, really."

Alfred laughs. "I hear you. Lightning bruisers all the way."

"I don't understand you," Ludwig replies, but he doesn't sound put out about it. If he were the sort for it, Alfred would say he sounded fond, almost. "But yes. They are not the strongest of us; they have speed, but not brute force. That is our department."

"Well, I don't know about you," Alfred grins, nudging the other man with his elbow. "I mean, you're into some weird shit. Might have lost your touch."

"We recently found an Iron Maiden in what remains of Berlin," Germany says idly, and there is a twitch at the corner of his mouth, as though he's biting back a smile. "Would you like to spend a night in it?"

Alfred laughs. "Hell no."

They continue in this vein for the rest of the walk, Matt and Gilbert trailing further and further behind. Alfred can't say he'd be surprised if they'd just jumped each other there and then, but no, they're still tagging along, lost in their own little world of soft words and easy touches. He's kind of jealous, because it's unlikely – if not impossible – that Britain will reciprocate his feelings and allow that kind of contact.

"Home sweet home," Gilbert sighs happily when he tumbles through the hatch into the base some ten minutes after Ludwig and Alfred.

Matt follows him, seals the hatch, and crosses automatically to the computer terminal where the other blonds are gathered.

"What's the plan, then?" he asks.

Alfred looks at him for a second. "We've got to rely on Gilbert to get through the systems and sneak us through."

Gilbert makes a noise of protest. "Why me?"

"Because you're tiny."

"I'm five eight, gigantor. I'm not tiny."

"You're pocket-sized," Matthew coos, giving him a filthy little grin and tweaking the now-albino's cheeks. Gilbert slaps his hands away.

"I hate you all."

Alfred snorts with laughter and puts a finger on a room on the on-screen blueprints. "There."

Matthew looks. "Of course it's the deepest room in the labs."

"It's not," Ludwig says, and points to a different room, the other side of the map. "This room is. But Britain's lab is the most heavily protected. They will have their work cut out for them."

Gilbert makes a vague noise. "Don't we always?"

They all nod at that.

It takes Germany a moment to force the doors open, but he does, and they tumble through and shove them shut immediately, glancing around for any Company troops on patrol. There's nothing, so they take a second to catch their breath before getting back to their job.

The room is brightly lit – so bright in fact that all five of them flinch back and cover their eyes until they've adjusted. It's as though they've stepped into the heart of the sun, but it's so cold in here Alfred can feel his flesh prickle with it. The walls are lined with consoles, a desk stacked high with papers, the white tiles on the floor and walls and ceiling impeccable, each shining like an individual star. Alfred is vaguely aware that his boots are caked with mud, that he's got a tear in the knee of his trousers, that the lining of his gas-mask is soaked through with sweat, that his clothes are in desperate need of a decent wash. A glance at the fidgeting Matthew suggests he feels just as unclean and awkward.

It's not a big room, by conventional means. It's big enough for the five of them to move around comfortably, big enough to house a good ten or so others. It's big enough to house the glass vat at the end of it that houses an upright bed, into which Britain is strapped.

He is hooked up to numerous machines; an oxygen mask feeding him air, and intravenous drips pumping him full of god-knows-what. Modesty's been preserved, of course, in his boxers and with white thermal bandages wrapped up over his heart and left shoulder, over his forearms and hands, open over the needles, down his thighs. There's a mark on the skin on the right side of his chest. Dark, perfectly circular, as though he's been branded or tattooed. Alfred can't get close enough to see what the pattern in the circle is, but he doubts it's good. His eyes are closed – bruised, even – and there are ugly scars on his face that hadn't been there the last time Alfred had seen him.

Has he been tortured?

Gilbert doesn't say a word, just crosses to the computer terminal and begins hacking into the mainframe. He would know, Alfred thinks, swinging his rifle onto his shoulder and listening to the sound his boots make on the tiles as he heads to the glass. It feels impenetrable as he puts a hand on it, cold and impossibly smooth.

"Britain," he whispers, staring up into that blank, unconscious face, wishing those scars would disappear, the wires disconnect, those green eyes open and tell him to stop dirtying the glass with his grubby fingers.

There is silence still, surrounding them, choking him. Part of him wants to cry, another cheer, but mostly he just wants to touch Britain, feel his pulse under his fingers, the clammy skin of a man who lived to feel the rain on his flesh. It's been too easy, too quiet. Gilbert being able to kill the guards isn't anything spectacular, he's always had the ability to kill silently and now that he's equipped with poison so potent a drop is enough to kill a man he's unstoppable.

But for the bodies to have not been found? For the alarms to have not been raised? Something isn't right.

"Shit!" Gilbert spits, and kicks at the wall beneath the console. Francis echoes the sentiment at the other console.

Alfred turns, but doesn't take his hand from the glass. "What is it?"

"It's harder to get in than we thought it was," Francis admits after a beat. "There are too many passcodes required to unlock the tank. They _really_ don't want him going anywhere."

"But," Matthew stammers whilst Alfred seethes, "There has to something you can do, right?"

"Right," Gilbert assures him, and promptly punches the console, smashing the monitor.

An alarm goes up, of course, because such things always do, and Alfred's about to turn and curse him out when he feels it.

The glass shifts, begins to rise. Alfred takes a step back to watch, and Gilbert grins smugly, victoriously. Matthew goes to the middle of the room, stands at Alfred's back, watching the doors. Francis and Ludwig join him whilst Gilbert slips into the shadows by the door, waiting to pounce. Alfred pays no heed to them; his focus is solely on Britain.

Who begins choking on air the moment the oxygen mask disconnects from him.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Alfred has **Myotonic dystrophy**, just FYI.

I have a **height kink** shut your face. No, uh, I played with their heights here, for fairly logical reasons. Mainly; Alfred's tanked up on hallucinogenic steroids (only not really, I'm messing. Am I?), Arthur's been locked in a tank for five years.

I also have a thing for **Arthur and Alfred's spine**. I'm sure I put him standing at his back in something else, not sure what, but I'm sure I've mentioned it before. I just love it.

Is that a hint of **Can/Ukr **with aside order of **AmeriBela?** Yes, yes it is. Who cares?

Yes, yes, I know that the **bullet train** is a Japanese thing, give over.

Oh**, Gil, why do you have to put yourself in Grey Fox gear** EVERY TIME I PUT YOU IN A REMOTELY MILITARISTIC AU? WHY?

I keep typing 'tracker jacker'. That's the last time I read the Hunger Games at three in the morning.

How many of you **thought his eyes were going to open** as the last line?

Oh, btw, **Silence**, Eva Cassidy's version of _Time After Time_. There's another one.

**Oh, and just to let you know, because I've had a few messages about it and why do you guys care so much you're all so utterly lovely; regarding the riots, I'm alright, I'm not anywhere near them. There's rumour of the next town over (what am I? Medieval and rural? I suppose I am actually) kicking off, but it sounds like a lot of it's just rumour. But don't worry: I'm okay. I hope you've enjoyed my lovelies! ++Vince++**


	3. Code Maker, Code Breaker

**For this chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, PruCan, France, Germany(/Italy), Britain. Background: one-sided USUK. Mentioned: Romano, Russia.

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** Violence. Language. Slash, angst, some other shit.

**Chapter Summary: **The body has been recovered, but the mind is damaged.

**A/N: **I fucking did it. I'm going to uni. Yes, I'm going to repeat myself. Ahem. Okay, so I promised Silence the next chapter of SMGO. Sorry, lovely, you get this instead. My bad. Negligible notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!

**Chapter Three: Code Maker, Code Breaker**

"What do I do? _What do I do_?"

"Gas mask!" Gilbert bellows over the alarms, over the sounds of Britain's coughing, over the doors giving way. "Put it on him, it'll filter the air!"

Alfred does so, and watches, unable to move, unable to breathe as he watches the older man hack and splutter into it. It can't smell nice to someone who's been fed generated air for five years, but it seems to be doing the trick. He's still unconscious, but his breathing's evened out somewhat, shudders from his chest and rattles through the filter. It's enough.

As the doors give, Alfred pulls Britain onto his back, uses one hand to hold him up, the other to hold his wrists, press the cold palm to his heart and hope it does something to bring him round, hope against all hope that it does _anything_.

"America!" Canada bellows, swinging his rifle up as Prussia leaps from behind the doors, landing in the midst of the swarming Company troopers and disappearing in a fluffy of movement. The troopers begin to fall left and right, and then there are bullets joining the fray. "Stay behind us!"

He ends up being walked out of the lab with the four of them at his sides, and it grates on him that Prussia's at his back, but it's the most logical way. Rifles are foregone, slung over backs in favour of smaller guns, old bayonets twisted into knives, and they're hacking and slashing their way through the army that's come to meet them.

"They planned this," Alfred says as they tear off up a corridor.

Why is Britain so light? Why is he so cold and so small and so pale? Why isn't he _here_ anymore?

"What do you mean?" Germany is rightfully confused, and he kicks a door in rather than wait for his brother to hack the codes for it. He guns down the three troopers inside before America speaks again.

"Getting Britain. They knew, They had to know we were coming, that we were here to get him back. It was too easy. They were waiting for us to get him out."

"And then," Canada finishes, realisation ugly on his face. "They were going to kill us all."

Prussia's frown is audible, a hiss of breath from behind his mask. "Bastards," he says.

Germany goes to the wall unit on seeming autopilot and begins to heave. Canada sees what he's doing, and helps. Between them they manage to haul the unit over and it seals off the doors. It won't hold for long, if the Company decides it's going to get them, but the few seconds it gives them will save their lives.

France starts hacking into the security as Gilbert sets about manhandling the corpses into a corner and clearing a space.

"America," he calls, and Alfred goes to him. "Put Britain down, I want to check him over. I can't do anything for him, but I can stabilise his condition as best I can."

America finds himself reluctant to let go, but Matthew puts his hands on Alfred's wrists and gives him this _look_, and Alfred turns on his heel and crouches, allowing the two to take Britain from his back and set him down.

He looks worse in the dim lighting; sallow and too-small and too old, and he's shaking, still hacking as if he's fighting the very air. His eyes are even more bruised than they first appeared, and Alfred reaches out a trembling hand, touches unkempt and badly-cared-for sandy hair, brushes through sweat-damp locks.

"Britain," he whispers again.

"Matt," Prussia warns, and then Canada's hands are under Alfred's arms, hauling him away, and America lets him, lets Matthew drag him off because Britain's dying. He doesn't need to see Prussia's face to know that's what he's thinking.

He watches in some kind of haze as Prussia's black fingers run over Britain's skin, prod and poke and feel at his ribs, the back of his knees, his wrist and neck.

"He's been tortured," he says, and his voice is barely louder than the filtered coughs coming from below him. "His ribs aren't set straight. The scars on his face haven't healed properly. He's been choked, I can feel it in his jugular, it's not pumping blood properly. His bones are very, very weak. I'd be amazed if he could speak, or walk, or even breathe normal air." He pauses, and those gloved fingers touch the mark America had noticed, run over it, trace the pattern. When he puts his palm flat over it, Britain arches his back, writhes and digs his nails into the floor. Alfred can see blood in the visor of the mask, but isn't sure where it's coming from. Prussia lets go quickly and says, "Shit."

"What?" he manages to gasp out. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Prussia says, and he's lying. "They've done _something_ to him, but I'm not sure what. I can't tell for sure what he reacted to."

The doors rattle, jerk Prussia from his musing, force America to leap to his feet.

"We need to move," Ludwig says, a little unnecessarily, perhaps. "America, if you would carry Britain? Prussia?"

Prussia nods and steps back. "I can't do much for him. America?" When Alfred looks he says, "The mark on his chest; don't cover it. Carry him bridal."

Alfred nods – he doesn't have time to argue, but hates the blush that rises in his cheeks – and hoists Britain into his arms. Then, five seconds later, they're out the other door and sprinting along the corridor.

"We're nearly there," he gasps into Britain's hair, slamming backwards through a door and staggering to regain his balance as he turns to run along another corridor. "We're nearly out, and you'll be okay. You'll be just fine, 'cause I'm a hero, aren't I?"

It's five-fifteen AM, and the white sun is rising over the wasteland of London, sparking off the mess that used to be the Thames, and the sky is alight with radiation and distant fires, but Alfred is caught in the way Britain arches in his arms, gasping and laughing a little through the filter of the gas-mask, and one pale, shaking hand is reaching up to the golden sky.

* * *

><p>It soon becomes clear that something is very seriously wrong. Once they're across the Channel, they make for France's base, and at Prussia's command, America puts Britain down. He's coltish, of course, his legs barely able to support his weight, for starters, slight though it is, and the ground is searing white-hot against the soles of his feet. America keeps a hand at Britain's back, ready to – support him, carry him, stop him – help him should he require it, but Britain finds his balance, and manages to pick his way across the rubble and avoid the metal in the streets.<p>

That's not the problem, Alfred thinks as Britain, again, wanders off to the side, something catching his attention; a butterfly. They're not rare, per se, but they're certainly not everywhere. The problem is; he hasn't said a word.

Not for lack of trying; they've been bouncing things off him since they hit once-French soil. Asking if he remembered his name was met with exasperation, calling him Britain was met with confusion, asking if he remembered anything settled a glare onto his features, and they all had to put a spring in their step to keep pace. It's disheartening, but Prussia assures them that he hadn't been able to speak after getting dumped back in Dresden.

Britain laughs a little, now and then, a breathy little noise that rattles through the filter and makes America pause, heart hammering every time. He remembers what Britain's laugh used to be like, but there was nothing of it in the noise the other rebel made.

He'd put his old bomber jacket on him, an heirloom from a time gone by, but attempts to shove him into a pair of filched trousers were met with kicks and a tumble, so they gave up trying to put him in clothes for the time being. It wasn't as though they couldn't fight off the Company if it saw fit to attack.

Personally, America thought nothing of the lack of trouble, but, he supposed, there was something in it. If they'd sought to kill them whilst in the Parliament labs, why would they suddenly stop? There was a hidden agenda somewhere, but damn if Alfred could find it.

Britain staggers, and Alfred's hand curls around his waist, holds him steady until he gets his feet back under him – and when had they gravitated towards each other? America had crossed to the other side of the street, Britain leaving the butterfly where it was, and he allows himself to be held, turns his gaze to the sky.

"You alright?" Alfred asks when he thinks Britain's standing on his own.

A jerky nod, and he lets go.

"Where are we?" he asks about ten minutes later.

"Lyon," Matt replies from ahead of him, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his rifle steady against his back. "We're going to head underground in a minute and rest up before going to Moscow tomorrow."

"Moscow? Why do we need to go to Moscow? Ivan's a dick."

Beside him, Britain stiffens, breathing staggering and body trembling. Alfred reaches out, unsure of what to do. Britain staggers into him, clutches at his clothes and presses the top of his head under Alfred's chin. America squeezes him softly, hugs him close. He has no idea what this is, but it can't be good.

"What the hell is that?" Matthew asks. "I mean; what the hell?"

Francis watches them with narrowed eyes. Alfred glares back. "I think… Britain has always been uncomfortable around Ivan; he might be on our side, but he has worked for the Company, he has killed other rebels in Their name. Try to see Ivan from the viewpoint of a child, for that is how Ar – Britain now sees him."

Alfred, caught in the idea of Ivan working for the Company – why had no one told him about that, _why hadn't they killed him yet_? – misses the slip, and pulls back to look Britain in the face.

"Hey," he whispers, putting one hand on the Englishman's neck, thumb rubbing the underside of his jaw. "We don't have stay for long, do we? Just a flying visit. And I'll be there, you know? I'll keep you safe. Ivan won't go anywhere near you. I promise. He won't touch you – won't _look_ at you – I won't let him."

Britain stares at him, and Alfred realises with a widening of his own eyes, that he has no pupil. His eyes are just green, flecks of gold and brown making the emerald moss and trees that are only just beginning to grow again, irises huge without the black of the pupil there to break it up.

"He's got no pupil," he says. "Guys, his eyes. I don't understand. What the hell, guys?"

Prussia appears at his side, forcibly pries Alfred away and steps in, presses his own masked face to Britain's. They stare at each other, locked. And then Prussia tears himself away.

"I didn't think it would be so bad," he says. "We can't go underground. We can't risk it. I don't know how bad it'll get."

"What?"

"His eyes aren't – he's reacting to the light. I don't know why – I don't think it's the same as what they did to me – I can't be in the light without something to block it – but Britain's the opposite, I think – I'm not sure. He needs the light, shutting that mark off from light screwed him big time, but – _God_, I don't know! I think – it's not safe. Whatever this is, it's not safe."

Britain blinks, frowns a little, and it's a familiar expression, and Alfred falls a little bit more in love with him for how much he'd missed it, how much he'd wanted to see that frown again.

The radio on Germany's belt bleeps, and he steps away to answer it. Alfred watches him for a second, looks at the scowl on his features, the way he smiles a little, soft and gentle and utterly loved and knows who it is on the other end, because only one person could elicit a response like that from the surly German.

"So what do we do instead?" Alfred asks, "If we can't go underground."

Prussia shrugs, and obligingly spreads his arms when Matthew makes a gesture. From what Alfred can see, it looks like part of the exoskeleton on the albino's suit's come loose, but it's hard to tell. "We'll go overland," he says with an idle little shrug. "I mean, it'll take ages, and we'll run into trouble along the way, but I know Britain, he can run. And if push comes to shove you can carry him, I guess. But we should go down, to Italy, hitch a ride up through the bullet train, maybe, you know Romano's good for getting his hands on shit like that, even if he hates mine and Lutz's guts, so it's not like we couldn't. We could just send you and Britain that way, and the rest of us use the underground."

As Prussia speaks, Britain steps a little closer to America, curls himself to fit against his side, breaths almost inaudible despite the filter of the gas-mask. Alfred glances down at him as fingers slip into his, wonders if Britain even remembers who he is.

"What is it?" he asks, deciding that it's not important, because something's spooked him, and a scared Britain has _never_ been good.

With his free hand, entire arm shaking, the smaller man points. Alfred squints, follows his finger, doesn't see anything.

"I don't see it," he says.

Britain tugs him down so their heads are level, points again. This time Alfred sees it.

"Sniper!" he shouts, and pulls Britain into him, wheeling to put his back to the barrel, to keep Britain out of sight. He thinks he sees Gilbert head towards the hidden shooter, thinks he sees Matt make an abortive move to follow him but get shoved into cover by Ludwig. He's vaguely aware of how in the open everybody is.

It is a sniper, but it's a bad one; the bullet glances his arm. Prussia shouts something – Alfred misses it – but soon works out what it was when half of Lyon explodes around them.

_Bomb_.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I know biologically, in order **to take in more light, your pupils expand**, but shush.

In other news, I just ate a solid chocolate kitkat. I have never been happier. Also, my spellcheck wanted to change 'kitkat' to 'douchebag'. What.

**So not a lot to say about this; I know Britain is really out of character at the moment, but you would be too. I don't think I should **_**have**_** to explain this, but better safe than sorry, right? I've kind of lost motivation with this, I mean, I love the ideas I've got for it, but this chapter was such an arsehole. It was **_**so**_** hard to write. I just want to get to the good bits, yanno? I don't want to have to waste your time and mine setting the story up, but I have to set it up to get to the good bits, don't I? Hang on; I'll get the ball rolling soon enough.**

**Hope you enjoyed my lovelies! ++Vince++**


	4. Riddle Me This

**For this chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, PruCan, France, Germany(/Italy), Britain, Russia. Background: one-sided USUK.

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** Violence. Language. Slash, angst, some other shit. Timeskip of half a day or some shit.

**Chapter Summary: **The fallout begins amidst the haze of smoke.

**A/N: **So I saw an amazing John/Karkat picture that just, god it was amazing. All science-y and it had this Ghost in the Shell feel to it, and then this happened. Okay, okay, okay, ignore anything I say ever, updates will continue to be as sporadic as normal. Once again, my style's changed. Negligible notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!

**Chapter Four: Riddle Me This**

Alfred's not sure how he survived, but survive he did, and he's not complaining all that much. He remembers feeling the searing heat of the bomb's explosion, remembers the feel of shrapnel.

They're lucky nobody died. Sure, he wouldn't have cared all that much if Gilbert snuffed it, but Matt would have been in a foul mood for _ages_ afterwards and America wasn't in the mood for that, ever. So he doesn't complain. He grouses a little, Britain kicks at him, and all is well.

He hadn't realised he was bleeding until they were in the rebuilt metropolis of Rome, hiding in the ruins of the Sistine Chapel praying to the long-since vacated God that they aren't found. Britain had put a hand on his back, a shoddy attempt at comfort, and though it stung a little, Alfred had just brushes it off as the heat of the bomb or some other such whatnot. Then had Britain made some kind of guttural noise, shock, perhaps, or disgust, and shoved a hand stained with red wetness in Alfred's face.

Understandably, Alfred had kicked up a fuss once he realised he was bleeding and got a smack upside the head for being a melodramatic shit.

But that was so long ago now that he barely even acknowledges that he'd felt pain. They're in Ivan's base now, buried deep under the ruins of Moscow and picking up where they left off, planning their next battles, communicating with their allies the planet over, gearing up to fight to the death.

No one expects to make it through alive.

During the journey on the bullet train to Saint Petersburg, Britain had flopped against Alfred's side, free of Alfred's gas-mask but keeping it within easy reach, snuggled closer when the younger rebel lifted his arm to circle his elder's shoulders. And there, in the darkness of a tunnel in Warsaw, he'd spoken.

It was barely a whisper, so directly into Alfred's ear he still isn't sure he hadn't imagined it, and so detached from what Alfred remembered of Britain's voice that his heart broke a little, and continues to break every time he thinks about it.

"I saved your life," he'd whispered. "The bomb would have killed you if it wasn't for me." He'd paused for a few minutes, and Alfred had looked at him. "I don't know what they did to me." He'd made a noise as if to ask a question, but couldn't seem to bring himself to ask it, and instead he'd clambered over Alfred's lap, shuffling closer to the light embedded in the ceiling of the car.

He seemed to soak up light, Alfred thinks, and wonders if it's just because he spent five years in the labs, or because his island had such bad weather, or what. All he knows is he likes light.

So really, he should have seen it coming. He really should have, and he feels like an idiot for not seeing it.

In the darkness of Ivan's base, Britain curls up in a mostly forgotten corner and pretends he doesn't exist. Alfred wants to sit with him, but France touches his arm and shakes his head, makes a production of getting Alfred to help him with the maps.

Chemicals are the first thing he smells, and then something tangier, metallic and rusted. He looks at himself, then touches his back.

"What is it?" Francis asks him.

"Can you smell that?" Alfred asks, looking at his dry, pale hand. "Blood."

Gilbert is sat at the other side of the table, on the floor between Matthew's feet whilst the younger rebel sits in a chair and pores over a report from Kat. "Yes," he says, and moves a marker.

His eyes slide up, meet Alfred's, and then they slide over to where Britain huddles in a ball.

There is blood under his nose, a red blot on his lip. He frowns a little and whispers, "It's so dark here."

That gets the attention of the longer-haired blonds, and all four of them frown at him. Gilbert slips his mask back on, cricks his neck before leaning closer as if to see. Alfred watches him from the corner of his eye.

"I can't feel anything down here, no light, no emotion, nothing of anything. I just… am. It's so dark here," Britain repeats, and wipes the blood off his lip with the back of his arm. It streaks across his face, catches in the dent of the scars on his face, makes him look like a painted clown.

Prussia gapes, and then snaps, "Shit! Al – get him topside, now!"

America's gaze snaps from the blond to the albino and he squawks, "What? Prussia?"

"Don't ask questions, just GO!" He's already at the doors, wrenching them open.

America gapes at him for a minute, and then looks at Britain. His eyes are half-closed, glazed, the green so pale as to be white. His skin is sheet-white. The blood from his nose has reached his chin. He's shaking.

Britain's voice is completely wrecked when he whispers, "It's so dark here."

"What the hell is going on?" It seems an adequate exclamation for the confusion bubbling in his chest, making his head swim. He thinks he might be sick.

Prussia loses his temper not a second later; "America!" he snaps, and it's enough to jar Alfred out of his own twisted, over-looped thought processes.

America nods once. "Right!"

He hoists Britain into his arms and follows Prussia up the stairs to the surface. Not a building stands fully upright, everything levelled and ruined, not a green plant in sight, not that it seems to matter to Britain. It's raining, a fine misty rain and Alfred knows it's going to take days before he feels dry. Britain smiles, sighs happily, his eyes bright. America sets him down on his feet, but keeps his hands on Britain's arms to steady him.

Britain whispers that it's raining, his tone reverential, almost, and he smiles, showing his front teeth and as America watches, his skin returns to its normal creamy colour. His eyes are glowing. He laughs a little, a sigh of happiness. He turns his face into the rain and just breathes it in. "It's so light out here, an endless brightness."

Alfred's jaw drops in awe at the sudden turnaround in Britain's appearance, disposition, his everything. "It's like he's _absorbing_ it. Like he's a plant or something." He glances across at Prussia. "You knew, didn't you? That he needs light?"

Britain doesn't seem to be listening, too engrossed in the light. He tugs his arms free, staggers a little, but retains his balance and wanders off. America goes to follow, but a tiny, warm hand situates itself in the crease of his elbow, a gentle reprimand in the squeeze of the fingers, the meaning clear; don't follow. Alfred turns to see who's stopped him, and gapes at the tiny black-haired figure that meets him with a nod and faint smile.

He likes Japan – his real name is Honda Kiku – he likes him a lot. He's small and cute and funny, and he's intelligent beyond his years – or maybe Alfred was intelligent under his years, it was hard to tell really, but to America at least, their Japanese compatriot was a genius. He was the source of their hacks and the nimble fingers behind most of their technology. Rumour was, he – like Ivan – had dipped his toes into the Company career ladder once, but whether it was true, and to the extent of his duration there, Alfred didn't know – didn't care to know. Kiku tends to favour lighter-weight clothing, blacks of linen and cotton, wrapping himself up tight until the only skin you can see is a tiny slit around his eyes, and maybe a few fingertips here and there, which is something, Alfred has learnt, to do with Japanese history, when such a thing was a permissible subject.

Today, though, he's left his hood-balaclava-mask down, freeing up an unruly mess of Asian black hair, and a peculiarly pale sort of tone for someone who's home had once been on those islands. He looks young for his years, and Alfred knows there are a few between them, though he's never been so obvious as to directly ask for an affirmation.

He blinks in shock, gapes, squeaks out a, "When did you get here?"

A small smile plays around the very edge of Kiku's scarred lips. "I followed you up." He looks at Prussia. "I am interested to know how you knew about Britain, Prussia; I have not told you of any of my theories."

Gilbert scratches his neck, and Alfred thinks he might be a little red beneath his protective gear. "Well, I noticed it when we went and got him. His room was really bright in comparison. They had daylight bulbs and everything. I never had access to the Company files about the other experiments, but…" He shakes his head, shrugs a little. "I don't know. I didn't really think anything of it at the time. We were all more concerned with getting him out than Their electric bill, weren't we?"

"You noticed that as well," Kiku hums, touching his chin with one fingertip.

"I didn't have much choice." He laughs. "God, I nearly went blind in there. It was so _bright_."

"I don't think They were conditioning him to the light source, though I should imagine that there is some conditioning involved in the process – you have conditioned responses of your own, do you not, Prussia?"

Gilbert's frown is audible in the way he draws his vowels out. "Yeah, but what do you mean? That Freddie's right? Have They turned him into a plant?" He looks down at the smallest of the trio, and stays there, stock still, clearly just watching, and waiting for a reply.

Japan, for his part, lets it wash over him. He has faced down bigger fish than Gilbert Beilschmidt, and won't be cowed by a failure of an experiment. His tone is neutral, pleasant even, but then, it always is. "I'm not sure. I will need to examine the files you collected a little more closely, but I think, I think maybe They have." When Alfred opens his mouth, Kiku adds, "Not in a literal sense. But he is now a creature made of light. The darkness will kill him if he remains in it for too long."

"But we live underground, what do we do about that? Tape a torch to him?" Alfred spreads his palms, catches dirt on his fingertips and split seams in the leather of his gloves.

"If that's what it comes to. He must be in constant contact with a source of light. I believe that is what the Company wanted. He is the perfect weapon. He will not kill us himself, but his need for light will direct the Company to us no matter where we are. Night missions will be impossible with him in this state." Japan's face is resolute against his words, as if he's preparing himself for his taller companions to lose their tempers. Alfred feels bad for making Kiku feel like that, since he and Gilbert, when in close proximity, weren't exactly known for their companionable dispositions. It's only a temporary discomfort though, because there are more important things afoot, and Alfred latches onto the despair lingering on the very edge of Kiku's low voice.

"Will he get better?" America asks, looking out over where Britain stands.

"I did," Gilbert shrugs.

Alfred waves him off, scoffing.

"But you were with Them for less than a year. You haven't been damaged that badly."

Prussia snorts unhandsomely, sticks his fingers up. "Uh, excuse me? I used to be human too you know." Apparently deciding not to grace Alfred with anything more dignified in response, he turns to Japan and opens with, "Hey, Honda?"

Kiku looks back at him with an enigmatic, blank stare. "Yes?"

Prussia plucks at his suit, makes a noise of questioning. Alfred can't see where he's going with it.

"Do you think you could make him one of these? But put an internal light source in it, or something? Or solar panels or something? So he's always in contact with light without the need for a direct source? Instead of blocking the light with the material, it farms it instead?"

Japan mulls it over for a few minutes, gnawing unseemly on his thumbnail. Alfred thinks it over too, briefly, already knowing that Prussia's onto a good idea, and he knows the only person capable of such a feat is Honda Kiku.

He tells him as such. "That sounds like a good idea. I mean, if anyone can make it, you can, Kiku!"

It makes the tiny man cave. "I will certainly try." He looks up at the sky and then at where Britain is stood with his arms spread, looking up into the rain. "I think the rain is good for him. It reminds him of home. Don't let him stay out in it for too long though, he will only get ill. Until I run a full system scan on him, we won't know if can take it at this point."

With a fond wave of his hand, a subtle dip of his head, he disappears inside. For a long minute, silence reigns between the two soldiers.

America is the first to break, and he frowns over at where Britain is – for lack of a better description – dancing. It's not got the rhythm or the rhyme, he's just picking his way through the rubble, grinning like a fool, and Alfred thinks he's beautiful, even if he's only in Alfred's bomber jacket and a few strips of white thermal bandaging.

"What's it like? Being a Company experiment?"

For a split second, something like shock jolts Prussia's body; what happened to the albino is not something they've ever really talked about. It's just one of many things that remain unspoken between them.

"It varies. Sometimes it's a godsend, I mean, I can do so much more than I could before – like with the air vents and the silent killing and shit. I couldn't do that before, I weighed too much. I mean, it sucks that I'm not as strong as I was before, but I'm quicker now, aren't I? And sure, my eyesight sucks balls, and I can't take the suit off in any form of high light or my skin'll burn, but I've got the tech to make up for it, so it's not a major thing." He gives Alfred a sly look. "I could say something else on that, but I'm not going to, I've seen your punches, they go through brick and mortar, I'm not risking you ripping my arms off."

Alfred makes an abortive noise.

Instead of responding to it, Gilbert sighs and shakes his head. "Mostly it's just the headaches. They hurt, so badly. Like someone's got a spoon behind my eyes and is trying to gouge them out and there's these voices in there as well, voices I feel I should know but I can't place them. They're not _bad_, they're not telling me to do anything or say anything, they just repeat things I've already heard, thoughts I've already had. It's weird, but it's manageable." He scratches at his head, picks at a thread on his mask. "Sometimes there are shadows without bodies, like there's somebody else in the room. At first I thought it was Matt, since they're always by him, but it's not. I don't know what it is. But for him?"

He falls silent for a moment, and then nods at Britain. "I don't have a clue how he'll manage. I know what it's like being in the Company's hands for just eight months. Five years? If he ever says anything logical again, it'll be a godsend. Come on, we'd better get him in."

America goes over to Britain, and announces his presence with a soft 'hey'. Britain jolts, but looks up at him with a wide, childlike smile on his face. It looks terrifying now he has scars on his face, even if that gap-tooth he'd had for all the time Alfred had known him – one he thinks he got after a mission gone wrong, you could still see the scars on his lip, if you looked close enough – remains and looks as cute as ever. His face is still marked with blood, and he still looks as though he might keel over at any second.

"Hello, love."

Alfred wants to melt, but instead he says, "Hello." He thinks Britain might look a little put out by his less affectionate greeting, but doesn't dwell on it. "We need to go back inside." He fishes in his knee-pocket and pulls out an old, battered lighter. "Here. It's a piece of crap, but it's a light source."

"This is the one I gave you." He flicks the tab until it catches and springs to life. "You've kept it in pretty good nick." There is a look of fondness on his face as he passes his free hand over the flame and hisses at the heat across his palm. He snaps the lighter shut, his expression still fond, even a little flushed, pleased, almost. Proud, maybe.

Alfred flushes a little. "Lighter fluid's pretty hard to come by, so it's running low, but I mean, it's not like a lot of people smoke any more, is it? I was going to look into converting it to running on more available stuff, but I never really got 'round to doing it."

"It doesn't matter. You kept it, that's enough."

His eyes are green; emeralds and grass and lime and neon, dark and light and everything in between. They seem to glow, without pupils as they are, and if he was ten years younger, a fictional character and designed to be that attractive, they'd be bigger, but as it is, they're small, squinted into the light but wide and open, bruised dark and purple against the ivory of his skin. They're freaky as shit, Britain's eyes, and Alfred wonders if anybody else finds it that creepy, and figures they probably don't, but Alfred thinks he might be something of a special case. Maybe, maybe not.

All he knows is there's something very seriously wrong, and he's not sure what it is, and that it terrifies him.

"Well what else was I going to do with – Oh my God, what is that?"

It's big. That's all he knows. It's big, it's made of metal, it's flying. It's got the Company symbol on it, and it's heading straight for them.

Somewhere, in the distance, already at the doors, the familiar clunk of chambered rounds in an anti-aircraft grenade launcher an echo to the words, Prussia bellows, "_Get inside, now_!"

America hears without listening, listens without hearing, and he responds to the order without thinking about who gave it. Fear is flitting through his system. He's scared, and he doesn't know why. If Britain wasn't right next to him, keeping pace even as he picked up his own to sprint, he knows he'd stay and fight. He wants to stay and fight even now. He wants to do something – ever since Britain had gone, he wanted to fight, even before then. All he wanted to do was bring the Company down.

He has the chance to take even one aircraft out.

Why isn't he taking it?

But even as he wonders on why he doesn't, he knows, he understands it. It's because of Britain that he won't fight. The guy's a wreck, he's _not _Britain. Somebody has to take care of him, bring the soul back to the body, and who better than the one who loved him most? If it wasn't for Britain, America wouldn't be alive to fight, to run and protect and be the hero that got the girl – man, in this case.

He won't fight, because Britain needs to know he's more than that, more than a product of the system and lack thereof.

Britain stumbles, but Alfred catches him before he falls, holds his waist and keeps him upright as he pounds his way across rubble and broken glass. Britain flits alongside him, feet barely touching the ground.

It's not until they're back inside and panting with their hands on their knees and confusion flooding Alfred's veins, it's not until they're enveloped in darkness that they realise that Britain dropped the lighter.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I know the **Sistine Chapel** is in Vatican City, not Rome. But religion no longer exists. So why would the Vatican be its own place? And, uh, yeah, there is no such thing as a 'country' any more either. Just putting that out there.

Also, **the painted clown** is a reference to Homestuck. Britain will get linked with Gamzee a _lot_, just so you know. He's a badass motherfucker. (cough _Devil in a Midnight Mass_ cough.)

**Do I have anything else to say? No, no I don't. I really should work on a) plot, and b) making my chapters longer. But will I? Hell no.**

**I hope you enjoyed my lovelies, and I'll see you next chapter!**

**++Vince++**


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